


The North Cries No Tears

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sad Ending, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been six years since the silver queen reclaimed her iron throne. What happens when a familiar face appears before the dragon queen's court; a girl all believed was lost to time? In a world ruled by prophecy and fate, can a lion and a wolf overcome their pasts? The War of Five Kings is over, but the fallout has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thanks for checking this out! This fic was originally posted on FF.net, but I'd like to share it here too! If you want to skip ahead, you can find me over there by the same username. Please don't forget to review, every comment and critique is so helpful and inspirational. Enjoy!

**_Tears_ **

_You swam beneath the deepest sea,_

_To pick up what I had “lost”._

_But my dear, that’s where I mean to be,_

_To join the tears I’d tossed._

 

**Chapter 1**

            Jaime strode into the throne room, awaiting his queen, when he was caught off-guard. A girl stood before the iron throne, staring at the empty chair. Besides the girl and the dragon skulls, filled and glowing with candlelight, the hall was empty. The dragon queen was yet to arrive.

            “Looking for someone?” he called out.

            The girl whipped around, waist-length brown curls flying back over her armored shoulder, left hand drawing out a thin blade. Jaime had only once before seen such a creature, many years ago when he was just a boy. The girl narrowed her blue, nearly grey eyes.

            “…Lyanna?” Jaime whispered.

            He stood there, staring in speechless bewilderment. Her wild beauty was just as great as the country that birthed her; she was a child of winter, a child of the North. Jaime was but sixteen during Robert’s Rebellion when he had laid eyes on the girl Rhaegar had spirited away. _No, this cannot be her. Lyanna is dead…perhaps this is her ghost…_ Jaime chuckled at the thought.

            “Do you mock me, ser?” The girl’s eyes flashed as she raised up her sword.

            “Of course not, my lady. It is just…you remind me so of another maiden just as fair as yourself.” _Pretty maidens love to hear a knight’s curtesy._

            Before he even understood what was happening, an object went flying past, grazing the tip of his ear with sharp burst of pain.

            “What the—” Jaime snapped around, bringing his fingers to his ear. A dagger stood quivering, imbedded in the great oak doors he stood guarding. Blood covered his fingertips, the drops falling down to stain his white cloak.

            “Not a lady,” she warned, dipping low into a mocking curtsey. She walked past him, ignoring his stare as she wrenched the dagger from the wood. “And next time I won’t miss,” she added.

            Jaime stared in awe at the girl. She didn’t look particularly dangerous—other than the sword she clutched, and now the dagger she spun effortlessly in the other hand. Her small stature matched his queen, although she lacked the soft curves that the dragon woman possessed. “And does this not-a-lady have a name?”

            She didn’t look up, merely watching the dagger went up and down as she flipped it. “And what do they call you?” she replied.

            “Ah, you want my name first? I fear there are far too many to repeat all of them. Kingslayer, you may have heard.”

            The girl nodded as if she already knew. “A kingslayer serving the new queen…is the dragon girl naïve, or simply stupid?”

            “My queen has her reasons for keeping me around, none of which concern you.”

            She bared her teeth in a wolf-like grin; perhaps not a pretty smile…but an alluring one nonetheless. Jaime approached her, eyeing her blades. “What business do you have here? I hate to warn you…but the queen has had quite a temper these past few months. I wouldn’t want that pretty face to get all burned up.” He reached his good hand forward, running a finger down her cheek. Before he could stop her, the girl had her dagger pressed to his throat and his left arm twisted painfully behind his back.

            “I warned you, Lannister. I’m not some pretty maid to play with,” she hissed.

            _Boom!_ The sound echoed throughout the hall, prompting the girl to swiftly sheath her blade and step back as if nothing had been amiss. Jaime turned. His queen had arrived.

            Daenerys, accompanied by her usual council, floated past in her lovely white gown. Jaime noted the ornate silver dragon clinging to her slender neck. _Even after all these years, my queen still reminds us what, not who, she really is._ Ser Jorah held out a hand, helping the small queen to climb the stairs before settling in her throne. The party seemed oblivious to the weapons, the hidden danger that the girl posed.

            “My queen.” Jaime bowed low, his cloak brushing the ground.

            “Ser Jaime,” she said, nodding in his direction. “And who might this be?” The queen gestured at the, presumably, northern girl, standing defiantly a few yards to his right. Before Jaime could respond, the girl stepped forward before the queen, sinking to her knees. Daenerys’s violet eyes took in her strange appearance; northerners were a rare sight in the capitol, and a pretty girl in armor was almost unheard of. _Except I knew a maid like that once…long ago…_

            The girl raised her head to meet the queen’s gaze. “Your grace. We are not so different, you and I. Both young girls once, mere victims of the wars of men. I know that your family was taken from you. Mine was as well. And now look at us both: warriors. You, a queen and I… With this knowledge I merely come asking for solace here, for refuge.” She finished, keeping her head lowered.

            The dragon queen raised an eyebrow, turning to Ser Jorah in question. The old knight shrugged. “Am I expected to allow just anyone a place in my kingdom? I do not even know your name. Rise and speak.” She raised her hand, palm face up, towards the ceiling. The girl slowly climbed to her feet, smoothing down her breeches before settling her hands by her sides.

            “I am Arya Stark, your grace. Of Winterfell.”

           

           

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

            Arya sucked in a breath and waited. The dragon queen did not move, her old knight did not move, every iron-clad guard did not move. Only the Lannister standing beside her. She heard the chink of his armor, rattling as his ribs folded over in laughter.

            “Seven hells, girl! You expect anyone to believe you?” He walked forward, stepping before the statuesque queen. “Your grace, you cannot entertain this fool! _Arya Stark_ died eight years ago when my sister took Ned Stark’s head. Even so, the Stark girl is a small child, nothing like the wench before you.”

            Clenching her first, Arya turned to the Kingslayer. “ _Was_ a child. I’m not anymore. People change, Lannister. Your queen seems to think so, allowing _you_ into her queensguard.” Arya spat at her feet. The queen shifted nervously in her throne.

            “You will not speak to Ser Jaime like that,” she snapped, composing herself. Arya stepped back, not in fear, but in respect. “Tell us then, girl,” she said, softening slightly, “Where were you all these years? Did you mean to leave behind your sister and brother?”

            _My brother…? Sansa? They’re alive_. A thousand memories of her childhood flooded forward. “…I did not know…please, your grace. Tell me of my family,” she pleaded. _Arya Stark would beg for her family._

            “I will, if your story is true.”

            Arya swallowed before starting. “Of course, your grace. After the Lannisters killed my father,” she looked over at the Kingslayer as he refused to meet her gaze, “I escaped the keep. During the war I eventually made my way from Harrenhall to Braavos, the free city.” The queen looked down, expectantly. Arya rushed on, “I lived there for many years, moving between the free cities as a…I worked for a great house there. I heard stories of you, of the great dragon queen reclaiming her throne. But I could not return…until now.” It wasn’t the entire truth, but the queen needn’t know the whole story. _She needn’t know why I return now_.

            “And no one learned that the Stark girl had escaped?” the queen asked, turning first to the knight and then to the olive-skinned girl beside her. Both shook their heads. “Ser Jaime, what say you?”

            “I’d say lock the girl up, at least till her story is proven. You don’t want a repeat of last time, your grace.”

            _Last time?_ “Please, your grace. I have no reason to—”

            The queen stopped her, raising a hand. “Ser Jaime is right. Escort her to a chamber that befits her…rank. She shall stay there until someone comes forward to claim her identity.” Two iron-clad guards moved behind her. The queen stood up, climbing down the steps as her party and the Lannister followed.

            “My family! You said—”

           “And take her sword,” she called over her shoulder before exiting the hall.

            Arya eyed the guard, grudgingly handing over her sword. The dagger remained hidden in her breeches. The other guard took her arm gently, leading her away from the empty throne.

 

            The door slammed shut, a bolt scraping across the steel frame. The guards had taken her to a chamber on the east side of the keep; a room not unlike the one she had stayed in as a girl. Arya strode over to the window, peering out at the orange sky. Past the towers and the stone walls, a small form soared in the sky above the sea. Arya squinted, clutching the sheer curtain. _A dragon…the dragon queen has dragons_. Arya smiled despite herself, awed at the creature.

            The chamber was elegantly furnished in typical Westerosi fashion, as if currently occupied by a lady of the court. Everything from the thick woven tapestries to the very air was unfamiliar; Arya had been gone from her homeland so long. She walked over to the wardrobe, examining the gowns. _Whomever occupies this room is certainly not one for modestly_ , Arya thought bitterly as the ornate silks spilled between her fingers. _But this is who you must become now…a lady of Westeros. You must become the fair maiden they love so much here_. After rummaging through the slippery fabrics, Arya decided on the simplest of the gowns: all navy blue, with pleats cascading down from the fitted corset. Arya laughed at the girl in the looking glass. Where she’d been, only whores and courtesans would wear such a thing. She slid her dagger down the laced bodice, the cold steel biting at her ribs.

            After examining every inch of the room, Arya lied down on the wide bed, with only her thoughts and the ever-fading dragon to keep her company as the sky grew dark. Just as her eyelids began to shut, a knock sounded at the door.

            Arya jumped up, allowing herself to fade into the shadowed corner as the door flew open.

            “Arya?” a voice whispered, stepping into a pool of light. She froze, heart thudding in defiance to her concealment. _I know that voice, I know that face_.

            She stepped forward, joining in the yellow pool. Arya watched as the shock spread over his face, watched as his eyes drank in the strange yet familiar girl before him.

            “Arya,” he breathed. “They told me you were here…I thought you were dead. You look so…” For a second Arya could almost make out a flush of scarlet on his soot-covered cheeks.

            Arya laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and again at the confusion on the poor boy’s face. _Well, not a boy anymore_.

            “Not dead?” she offered up, waving at her body. “And not the Arry you once knew.”

           

 

 

           

              


           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave any and all comments and critiques, I would love to hear what you'd like from this fic and this pairing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Gendry, his mouth agape and eyes wide, merely sputtered at her. Arya rolled her eyes. “I knew you’d recognize me, now go and tell your bloody queen.” 

“—how did you get here?” he said, shutting the door behind him and stepping closer. He still smelled of soot and steel, stronger than before. 

“I took a ship,” she said simply. “It’s easier than you think, Gendry. To get around in this world.” 

He swallowed, crossing his toned arms. “Why’d you come back? I’d thought m’lady hated this place. They took your father’s head…and your sister—” 

“What? Tell me, Gendry.” Arya grabbed his arms, forcing him to look down at her. “Tell me what they did to her.” 

Gendry shifted uncomfortably in her grip, but did not seek release. “Everything I know I learned after the queen reclaimed her throne. It’s the best truth you’re gonna get,” he started. “After you left, the Lannisters married her to the Imp, Tyrion. But when Joffrey died she was stolen by Littlefinger. Bastard’s dead now,” he added. “I heard that he’d had plans of marrying her off to some lord in the Vale, or maybe he’d marry her himself. I don’t know, it don’t matter anymore. Then the dragon queen arrived, and your sister’s first husband with her.” 

“Her prisoner, you mean?” 

“Nay, her advisor.” 

Arya widened her eyes, releasing his arms to step back. She began pacing, one hand rubbing the back of her head. “Is that why she keeps the Kingslayer?” _It seems this queen has a strange fondness for lions_ , she mused. 

Gendry spat at his feet. “No one ‘cept the queen herself knows, I reckon. She’s a good ruler, just. But to forgive the man who killed her father…” 

“And what of my sister? Where is she now?” 

“She’s with the Imp, m’lady. The queen handed her back over. None of us have seen her since the septons had ‘em redo their vows. I’d imagine she’s with him at the Rock.” 

_She’s safe then, away from the capitol._ Arya stopped her pacing, looking up at him, remembering. “The queen said something about my brother. Does she mean Jon?” 

“I’ve not heard, m’lady.” 

“I’m _not_ your lady, Gendry,” Arya snapped, eyes flashing. 

Gendry grinned back at her, and Arya suppressed a smile despite her pleasure. _It’s been so long since I’ve seen a friendly face…I had no friends like this back in Essos_. “Of course, m’lady.” 

She ran up to him, playfully smacking his arm. “I’m not ten anymore, Gendry.” 

Arya expected him to hit her back, but his hand fell short, falling limply back to his side. She frowned at the failed reciprocation, pulling her own hand back to awkwardly smooth down her skirts, pressing harder and harder as the pleats refused to give. 

“Look at me, Arya,” he said, catching her hands in his own. Arya looked up, for some reason embarrassed at the situation. At herself. _Why am I acting like this? I’ve dealt with men before, I…I know how to handle them_. She pushed those thoughts back, focusing on his somber eyes. 

“I _know_ you’re not ten. Any man could see that.” Arya noticed how his eyes flicked down. “But you are a lady, now more than ever. Things can’t be like they used to.” 

Just as she opened her mouth, Gendry leaned forward, planting a light kiss on her cheek. Arya stood frozen as his lips moved away, heat rushing to her face. Gendry squeezed her hands once more before stepping back, softly closing the door behind him. Arya brought her fingers to the spot, hoping that her cool flesh would quench the fire burning under her skin. No luck. Reaching down her bodice, Arya pulled out the dagger hidden against her ribs. She raised the flat steel to her cheek, praying that the blade would take away whatever Gendry had left behind. 

The next morning her door finally opened again. During the night a servant had drifted in, carrying a tray of boiled potatoes and salted pork. She had eaten this greedily, having nothing to fill her belly since she left the ship this morning. _Back to Pentos, was it? Or maybe Myr?_

A guard beckoned her out, proceeding to escort her to the throne room. Arya smoothed a hand over her messy braid and now deflated pleats. As she the door parted the inky skulls leered in the grey light, no longer ominous without their fire and darkness. The queen sat as before on her throne, this time dressed in a strange looking garment wrapped intricately around her thin frame. _A tokar_ , she remembered, thinking back to her trip to Slaver’s Bay. The ship she’d ridden in had just been passing through, but Arya had seen a few nobles at the port, scattered about as they fussed over the incoming trade ships. 

“Lady Arya Stark of House Winterfell, the Girl Lost to Time,” the dark-skinned girl called out, rising as she addressed the budding court. The few lords and ladies stood, turning as Arya strode down the aisle before halting before the steps. The Kingslayer was not there, only the old knight and a handful of guards. 

“I see someone has persuaded you. And I like the title, was it your idea, your Grace?” Arya questioned, picking up her skirts as she bowed her head. 

The queen’s violet eyes flashed in annoyance at the jest. “It was not, Lady Stark,” she replied curtly, ignoring Arya’s tone. “But I am told that the Westerosi like these names. I have many myself, you see.” 

Arya smiled despite herself. “Then I thank you, your Grace. If that is all—” 

The queen rose, a small hand clutching the tasseled fabric at her waist. “One more thing.” She took a tiny step forward, as if balancing in the narrow dress. “My court is dismissed,” she called out. The light crowd began to shuffle and move at once, still groggy in the early hour. “I will speak to Lady Stark alone,” she said, looking at her council and personal guards. 

“Is that wise, your grace?” the old knight whispered, glancing suspiciously at Arya. 

The queen gave him a small smile, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I was once a young girl as well, Ser Jorah. She will do me no harm.” The knight, presumably Ser Jorah, nodded before taking his leave. 

“Follow me,” the queen said, turning to walk down the steps. Arya rushed forward to help her, afraid that she might trip, but the queen waved her off. “I have had years of practice.” Arya followed her past the throne and into an adjacent room. The walls were lined with books, the air musty with only one window. The queen sat down at the oak table, beckoning Arya to join. 

“I apologize for last night, Lady Stark. I hope the chambers were acceptable,” she said, pouring herself a cup of iced wine from the brass pitcher. 

“I’m used to worse, your Grace.” 

The queen responded by waving her hand as she drank. She set the goblet down, proceeding to pour another for Arya. “You needn’t use the formalities in here, it’s just Dany. And from what I’ve heard, courtesy was never your thing.” 

“Aye. But I have learned a thing or two over the years.” Arya picked up her wine, wincing as the bitter liquid washed over her tongue. Despite her years traveling from city to city in the East, Arya had never acquired a taste for the drink. 

“I want to know,” Dany started, swirling her cup, “what you did these past years. How does a young girl from the North survive on her own?” 

“The only thing a woman can do. I worked for men, the same as you.” 

Dany narrowed her eyes, setting down her cup. “Do you take me for a whore?” 

Arya shrugged. “No, I take you for a queen. But all women work for men in this damned world, a queen most of all. Just as I served the men of the East, you serve the men of your kingdom.” 

“And how did you serve these men? Not with your body, I presume.” 

“Not usually,” she replied, mimicking Dany as she set down her full cup. “I killed other men,” she put simply, looking up through her lashes at the queen’s hard expression. “I traveled the world, serving. From Braavos to Volantis, New Ghis to Naath, I served.” 

Dany sucked in a breath, staring at Arya. “Why.” It wasn’t a question. 

She pondered this, staring out through the small bubbling glass. “I had no where else to go. My home was stolen, my family, the north.” Arya snapped her head back around. “I left my tears behind when they murdered my father. _That_ is why I left.” 

A small hand reached towards her own, gripping it firmly. “I see your strength, Arya. You are not unlike myself in that way.” 

Arya saw the kindness in her violet eyes, masked by the hard façade of the dragon queen, but still she quietly drew back her hand. “What will you have of me?” 

Dany stood up, still clutching her tokar. Arya followed her silently out of the room, past the empty throne and onto a balcony overlooking the city. “Do you see this, Arya?” She gestured to the sea of tiles covering the streets. “I have been looking for someone like you for quite a while. Someone who has traveled the East, someone who has proven their strength and stealth.” Arya cocked her head, trying to make sense of her words. “Perhaps it is time that you serve someone else. I need your help.” 

The rooftops flashed under the rising run, winking in the heat. _The place still smells of shit_ , she couldn’t help but think. Facing the queen, she replied, “What with?” 

“There is something you will find for me. I require something of great importance, hidden in the Shadow Lands. This mission must be done in the upmost secret, do you hear me? A ship will carry you from here to Braavos to begin, and you shall be accompanied by Ser Jaime and a handful of guards.” Dany leaned forward, resting her palms on the railing as she overlooked her city. “You leave in a moon’s turn,” she added before shuffling away as gracefully as a queen might, leaving Arya staring out at the stinking city. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The formatting might be a little different this time, I'm still figuring things out. Anyways, thanks for reading and feel free to leave comments!


	4. Chapter 4

            _She ran her fingers across the frozen walls, the ice melting under her touch as she moved further through the tunnel. Frost coated her fur-lined cloak, but still, even in the heart of the great wall, she felt no chill. The tunnel turned sharply, revealing a door, rotted by time yet pulsing, pulsing with need. As she threw her shoulder against the stiff wood, a low growl came from within. Once inside she pressed herself to the cell wall, but the wolf did not advance. He snarled, baring his teeth but did not move from the body._

_“You need to help him, sister. It is the only way.”_

_Whipping around, her eyes widened in fear. “I do not know how,” she breathed out, words and steam expelled into the frigid air. The wolf snapped his jaws, turning away as he crouched above his master, his once white fur stained red and brown. “I do not believe in prophecy anymore,” she whispered._

_“You must help him. You must.” He walked towards her, reaching for her face. She recoiled backwards, almost falling before the wolf warned her with a rumbling growl. His fingers met her cheek, singing the flesh with a fire she had never felt before, not even when she had been consumed by the flames. The pain grew sharper, his touch burning with a heat that brought tears to her eyes, a heat that seared straight through to the bone, scorching and burning until—_

            Dany screamed, looking madly around her chambers. She sat up, breathing hard and her heart beating furiously. Bringing a palm to her cheek and another to her chest, she felt only smooth skin and a thudding pulse. The door burst open, smashing into the wall.

            “Your Grace!” Ser Jorah rushed over, sword in hand. Dany wrapped a thin sheet around herself, hugging her knees to her chest as she looked up.

            “I—I am fine, Ser Jorah. Fine.” The knight ignored her, settling beside her on the disheveled bed.

            “A nightmare, Khaleesi. The third this week.” He furrowed his brow, laying down his sword.

Dany looked away. _After all these years as queen, I am still plagued by the monsters of children_. “It is the same dream, my bear. The same dream that has haunted me since I came to this land.”

Jorah hesitantly placed one large hand on her upper back, stroking it gently. Dany felt as his fingers moved through her tangled hair, gently loosening the silver knots. She leaned into his touch, admitting the comfort it brought.

“You told me of your plans for the Stark girl, Khaleesi. I still do not see—”

“What do you not see?” she shot back, lifting her eyes. His hand froze but remained pressed against her. “You do not believe in the prophecy? In me? Perhaps you do not want this to work.”

“I have seen you rise from the ash with three dragons. I have seen you free thousands of slaves and conquer great cities. And I have seen you reclaim your father’s throne with fire. But this? _This_ is sorcery. Necromancy.”

Dany stared into his hard eyes and lifted a hand to his cheek. “My brother gave me these dreams for a reason. I am destined to do this, and with you by my side.” She pulled his face closer, feeling his hot breath against her neck. He brought her closer in turn, drawing her up onto his lap. “When the girl returns, I will walk into the pyre as before. I will emerge as before, unburnt. Dragons bring great power, I was once told,” she whispered into his ear. “Enough to bring back my nephew.” Dany kissed his jaw. “I _will_ complete the song of ice and fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same! Please let me know what you think of this chapter. Any comments, critiques, and reviews are much appreciated! Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

The queen’s door opened, leaking pale light into the dark hallway. Jaime stayed hidden in the shadows as a figure emerged, turning right as he groggily rubbed his hair. He watched as Ser Jorah made is way past the silent wall of eunuchs before rounding the corner. Jaime was on queensguard duty tonight; a position that gave privy to all sorts of juicy information. _Not that this is anything new_ , he thought. _The bear frequents her bed whenever the sellsword is away. She’s been inviting him for years_. Daenerys was a strange ruler; she had never taken a man for her husband, leaving her alone on the throne. Furthermore she was the only woman he had ever heard of to take a paramour, the Tyroshi sellsword Daario Naharis. 

Jaime slipped from the shadow, knocking on the door before entering. Daenerys stood facing out towards the rising sun, not yet dressed for court. She wore only a sheer silk nightgown, although most was covered by a smooth silver sheet. 

“You asked me to come at first light, your grace.” 

“I did, ser. Come here.” She did not turn, knowing that he would follow. Jaime walked over to her side, crossing his arms over his armored chest. _Not the gold I once wore, but dark steel now, with Targaryen slashes of crimson_. He looked down at the small queen, waiting. 

After a long pause she spoke again, gesturing to the view. “My dragons like the rising sun, they fly every morning to greet it.” 

Squinting, he could make out three bird-like forms, soaring and dipping in the pale glow. “An incredible sight, your grace.” _Why does she say such things?_

As if hearing his internal question, the queen turned, looking up at Jaime with a soft smile. “They will have brothers and sisters soon,” she stated quietly before regaining her queenly composure, clearing her throat. “You leave in a moon’s turn, with Lady Stark.” 

Jaime nodded, trying to hide his surprise. _I did not believe she would actually send me, and with a child no less._ “Is that wise, your grace? When you told me of this plan, I thought it but a dream. My place is here, defending your rule. And you want me to travel with the northern child?” 

“That _child_ has seen much more of the world than you, ser. I would send her alone, but I fear that would be too dangerous. I will be perfectly safe with my unsullied and Ser Jorah.” 

He smirked at the name. _Safe in your bed, perhaps._ “You know that I would do anything for you, but if you expect me to take orders from a maid—” 

Her violet irises flashed in the pale, angry light. “You will do as I command. You have not forgotten your promise, I trust. I’ve sent golden heads rolling before, don’t make me repeat the past.” 

_And so the dragon speaks_ . Jaime tensed, waiting for the next fiery words. Instead his queen turned to face him straight on. 

“Missandei will accompany you and Lady Stark into the city today, to purchase whatever you require and make arrangements.” Her voice was firm but not dangerous in tone. 

Jaime bowed, taking the words as his leave as he exited the queen’s chambers. 

“Not worth it by far,” Jaime whispered into the girl’s ear. “The queen now imports from the free city of Astapor, and the fruit has never recovered from the loss of slaves.” 

She set the blood-orange down, frowning. “I didn’t know that fruit cared if its growers were free or chained.” 

Jaime smirked before realizing she was feigning stupidity. Arya laughed at his face, picking the fruit back up and placing it in her netted bag, flipping a copper at the shop owner. The old man caught it greedily, eyeing its previous owner up and down lustfully. The city was filled with marketers of all kinds, hollering for their patronage. Ever since the dragon queen had arrived, King’s Landing had reopened with a vigor not seen since before the Mad King. Flamboyant spice traders from the Summer Islands and weathered whalers from Ibben all sought prosperity in the Targaryen capitol. 

Arya flashed a grin at the leering man before resuming her stroll down the narrow street. Missandei quickly followed at her feet, casting a disgusted look over her shoulder at the man, who gave her a wink. He sighed, stepping behind the two girls. Arya had donned the revealing silks of Lys, the pale blue fabric hinting at soft curves while exposing her back and the tops of her pale breasts. When the girl had met him at the keep’s gate, she had laughed at his horrified expression. 

“I warned you, Lady Stark. The common men of Westeros have no shame in their gawking,” Jaime called over the crowded street. 

She stopped, waiting till Jaime caught up. “One of the many things I have learned in the East is that men are much more willing to sell to a pretty girl than an armored knight. Although…they might like me even more if I wore amour…” She turned back around, pondering this. 

_How in seven hells did Ned Stark’s daughter turn into…whatever she is_ . He pushed aside the thought, hurrying to follow as the girls entered a dense portion of the market. The three of them went from stand to stand, purchasing supplies for the trip. Along the way Missandei read off a parchment, explaining the goods the queen thought they might require. People cleared from their path at the sight of a queensguard, but still the stares continued. “It’s like the bloody maiden herself walks through their streets,” Jaime muttered under his breath after passing a colorful merchant making a rather rude gesture behind the girls’ backs. As he hung back, the Stark girl bargaining down the price of some leather boots, a hand suddenly clasped onto his arm. He turned, about to draw his sword when he saw the face. 

“ _Seven Hells_ , Podrick,” he hissed. “I told you to stop doing that.” The boy looked at his feet, reddening. The once squire had been appointed to knighthood after being released from Brienne’s service, but still he remained close to the capitol, now in Jaime’s service. 

“Sorry, my lord. I—I thought you should know that a raven’s come from the Rock. I thought to give it to the queen, but it’s from your brother.” Podrick handed him the scroll. 

_Jaime,_

_I ride for the capitol, and I should be arriving the day after you read this. The news I bring is far too dangerous to discuss by raven. Meet me at the Street of Silk, I expect you know the place._

Rolling up the parchment and tucking it into his belt, Jaime pondered this. “Thank you, Pod. Return to your duties.” The boy dutifully bowed his head, slipping back into the crowded street. Jaime glanced over at the girls, who has seemingly succeeded in their bargaining. 

“Lady Stark, Missandei. It’s best we return to the keep.” They turned at his voice, Arya rolling her eyes before thanking the merchant. 

“Thank you for the boots, ser. It seems like my pretty watchdog wants to return home.” The man started to laugh before seeing Jaime’s stern expression, gulping. 

“Of—of course, great lady. It’s been a pleasure.” 

Jaime noticed how he now released his plump hand from the girl’s waist. As they walked away through the crowd, he turned to the girl beside him. “Don’t you wonder what your father would think?” 

Arya smirked, running a hand through her tumbling curls. “I doubt he’d even recognize me,” she replied smoothly, looking up with her steel blue eyes. “But perhaps that is the point.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading and don’t forget to comment!


	6. Chapter 6

“No, you don’t understand,” Jaime said firmly, his annoyance rising. “I’m looking for my brother.” Still the honey-skinned woman shrugged, teasing at his tunic. Jaime grabbed her wrist, pulling it away. “The _Imp_ ,” he explained, exasperated.

“Oh, you want the little man?” she purred, almond eyes lighting up. “Back there. The little man pays well.” She gestured over her shoulder to a draped doorway, clouded by silk and rolling clouds of incense.

Jaime rolled his eyes, pushing past her. _Of course my brother would pick the finest brothel in town as a meeting place_. The alcove was even darker than the parlor, with maroon sheets tenting up to a high ceiling, admitting wine-colored light through the veiled windows. Tyrion sat on one of the many cushions, alone and lounging with a flagon of wine.

“What, no girls to keep you company?” Jaime wandered forward, plopping himself down beside his brother with a groan.

“Ah, how good it is to see you, dear brother. How long has it been? Six years? And no, it would seem that I have changed my ways. A lady wife and some lion cubs will do that to you, you know.” Tyrion drank deeply from his cup, tilting back his head. “Have you got one?”

“A lion?”

“A _girl_ , Jaime. A _wife_ ,” he said pointedly. “Perhaps our sweet queen would like someone to warm her throne. I hear it gets quite drafty up there.”

Jaime chuckled. “I fear that her bed is too open already,” he sighed. “Besides, I’m not interested. Tell me of this danger your raven spoke of.” He reached over, pouring himself a cup of the Arbor gold.

Tyrion’s spine straightened, his expression now serious despite his reclined position. “There has been news of the Reach, Jaime. I knew that we should never have let the pretty rose crawl back there. Her prickly grandmother too,” he added before lowering his voice. “There are whispers about the Tyrells planning on usurping the throne.”

Pulling back in surprise, Jaime set down his untouched cup. “Why would Highgarden want to reclaim the throne? They _helped_ Daenerys reclaim it.”

Tyrion shook his head. “ _Reclaim_ but not keep. They worry of the queen’s fertility, that she cannot produce an heir. Especially worrisome as she rules alone. If the Targaryen line were to go extinct, who do you think would claim it?”

He pondered this. “…she allowed Stannis to live. In exile, but live nonetheless. That is what they fear? That if the queen dies the Baratheon’s would reclaim the throne?”

“Aye, not a pretty sight for the pretty roses. That’s why they think to make a move now, before Stannis can regroup. Will you inform the queen?” Tyrion eased back down, returning to his cup.

“I…I do not know if that is wise, Tyrion. There are things stirring in the capitol as well.” His brother looked over his rim expectantly. “Arya Stark has returned, and the queen plans to send me and her on some sort of mission…”

“Seven hells,” Tyrion breathed out, rubbing his jaw. “I’ve got to tell Sansa, she thinks the girl is dead!” He moved to stand, pushing up from the floor with a wobbly arm. Jaime stopped him, pushing gently on his shoulder.

“Wait, brother. We cannot have this news travel to the Rock. I know you trust your wife, but this is her _sister_ we speak of. If the Reach were to find out about this mission—”

“What kind of mission?” Tyrion interrupted, falling back down. The wine had clearly started its effects.

“To bring back something. Dragon eggs from the Shadow Lands.” Jaime watched as these words settled over his brother, despite his clouded state. “She will not tell me why. Any ideas? You’ve always been keen on the beasts.”

“…I will have to think on it…but are you certain that Sansa cannot know?”

“No, Tyrion, Raise you children with the idea that their aunt was some brave little wolf, that is all.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “Is she not anymore? I remember the girl, a filthy, boisterous little thing. So unlike her sister…”

Jaime knew that his brother’s marriage to the Stark girl had started off rocky, but had somehow grown into a friendship. “Not love,” Tyrion had said once. “But we are both happy. I greatly value our companionship, more so now with a babe on the way.” That was five years ago, and the couple had been blessed with three more children over the years, some golden, some kissed by fire like their mother.

He sighed, thinking of the northern creature. “She’s still wild, I’ll give you that. But time in the East has changed her. I don’t know what happened, but she certainly learned to play the game.”

His brother smirked. “Ah, that’s a look I thought I’d never see again. Is my dear brother in love?” The words were obviously meant in jest, but Jaime’s eyes darkened, remembering.

“Do not mock me on the subject, Tyrion. You forget that my left hand works just as well now.” His brother responded by holding out his palms, backing off. “The girl hides behind some mask. You should see the way she dresses, even my whore-loving brother might blink twice. Just the other day at the marketplace, you should have seen how she interacted with those perfumed cheesemongers. I can almost see Ned Stark rolling over in his crypt,” Jaime groaned.

“You forget something, Jaime. Women all over this world hide behind masks. My own wife did as our family beat and tortured her. Hells, even in the first years of our marriage she hid behind a thick veil of courtesy. Think of what the poor girl’s been through. Abandonment, loss, pain. It’s a wonder that every women from the Wall to Qarth can be seen at all.”

“I see your point,” Jaime replied, nodding. Tyrion drained the last of his wine, tipping out the last golden drops before setting it back down.

“What do you think fills the seas?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jaime gave his brother a quizzical look. “Salty water, I suppose?”

“Aye, brother. Tears. With all the pain they go through, something had to fill this damned place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and as always, reviews are much appreciated! I really want to know what you guys think about this story, since it’s a bit different from what you usually see. Let me know what you like/dislike, and what you’re excited about. Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

Dust clouded the hot air as she set the chest down with a low thud. Wiping her hands on her thin breeches, Arya looked back over her shoulder at the keep. Their ship was to set sail tonight, and the small dock was steadily filling up with crates and barrels of all sizes. The chest by her feet contained more of her…personal possessions, and Arya had dismissed every serving boy who offered to drag it down in her stead. Holding out her hand to block the blazing sun, she could make out a figure running towards her from the keep. 

“Oye! I’ve already told the lot of you that I don’t need help!,” she warned, blinking. Stepping out of the sun, she lowered her hand. He stopped abruptly in front of her, breathing hard. “Gendry.” 

He took a few deep breaths, hands on his knees, before speaking. “I—I wanted to see you. Before you left.” Gendry now straightened to his full height, half a head taller than herself. 

Arya crossed her arms, looking up. Even with the brightness clouding her vision, she could make out a glaring streak of dirt from cheek to jaw. “I’m not leaving till tonight.” 

“You and I both know I wouldn’t be allowed down, m’lady…I wanted to see you again.” Gendry stepped closer, prompting Arya to take a step back as she looked away. The cold stones of the keep now brushed against her back. 

“Why are you acting like this? You never cared this much before,” she countered. Arya avoided his eyes, focusing on the grime clinging to his face. 

He knotted his eyebrows. “You mean during the war? Of course I cared about you…just in a different way is all. You were a child then…and now—” 

“Now what?” she demanded, meeting his eyes. “Dammit, Gendry!” she yelled, not caring if anyone saw. “Tell me then. What am I supposed to be now?” The last part was hissed out, her nostrils flaring. 

Gendry studied her. After a long pause, Arya’s chest still heaving, he reached down, running a hand through her loose hair. “I haven’t a clue.” 

The air, suddenly charged with electricity, seemed to freeze around them. Arya rose up to her tiptoes, and without thinking, kissed the dirt right below his ear. Gendry tensed beneath her, but did not pull away. Arya trailed her kisses down, following the streak until they ended at the tip of his jaw. As her lips pulled away, his hand reached for her own, interlacing their fingers and bringing their hands high above her head. Gendry bent down, kissing hungrily at her lips for the briefest of seconds before releasing her hand. Arya looked up at him now, the rise and fall of their chests in sync. 

“Come back for me,” he breathed out, resting his forehead against her own. 

Arya nodded, savoring the feel of his nose against hers, their lips just inches apart. “I will.” 

Walking beside the queen, Arya played with a loose thread on her tunic. The Kingslayer led their small party, with Ser Jorah rounding out the back. A handful of unsullied accompanied them, silent as they marched. To their right the Blackwater Bay glimmered, the smooth surface reflecting a thick blanket of stars from the clear sky. Their own ship lay about a mile down, secluded in an alcove off the bay. 

“Did you have any pets growing up?” Dany asked, looking up. The queen had just finished telling Arya of the birth of her three dragons. 

“My family found six direwolf pups in the woods. Mine was called Nymeria,” Arya replied, suddenly uncomfortable. She reached up, rubbing the goose pimples crawling up her arms. Dany halted, giving Arya a knowing smile. The rest of their party came to a stop, mimicking their queen. Jaime turned to give them an exasperated look, which both girls ignored. 

“I know how hard it is to speak of one’s family, Arya. If you ever—” 

Without warning, a scream went out. Arya and Dany whipped around towards the terrifying cry. One of the unsullied lay sprawled on the ground, dark blood seeping beneath the fletching of an arrow erupting from his throat. The queen screamed as another arrow went flying, this one grazing the arm of an unsullied as they ran to protect their queen, shields ready. Ser Jorah ran, sprinting up to protect her. Arya looked up amidst the chaos to where the arrow flew from, a point high up on the wall of the keep. 

“Arya!” The voice caused Arya to peel her eyes away, now focusing at the dark form running towards her, crimson rippling from its shoulders. Jaime reached for her hand as another arrow pierced an unsullied’s shield. “Arya, we have to go! Now!” Even in the darkness, Arya could make out the terrified pleading in his eyes. 

She looked back once more at the queen, now on the round beneath a sea of iron and wood. From the distance she could make out more guards running towards them, ducking and rolling beneath a growing stream of arrows. Arya clasped onto the cold hand before her and ran. 

Both at top speed, they sprinted away from the attack towards the end of the bay. Despite her agility, Jaime had longer legs, leaving her pulled along behind as they darted the arrows raining down. His cloak flew back at her, clouding her vision with blood before she ripped it away, tearing. On and on they seemed to run until he abruptly pulled her left, painfully jarring her wrist. A few yards ahead was their ship, unaffected in its alcove. High above on the ship a man began to yell, urging the crew to prepare to sail. Arya glanced behind; horrified at the battle taking place. Unsullied and unknowns now fought openly, their swords and steel reflecting off the bay and casting horrible shadows onto the keep’s walls. 

“Arya!” Jaime yelled, his voice distant. She looked up to find Jaime already on the ship, hands stretched down below the rail. Understanding and without looking back, Arya ran, springing off the hard ground until her hands were grabbed roughly from above, hauling her weight up. Another set of hands grabbed her legs as they appeared, yanking her over the edge before dropping her down hands first onto the hard deck. A hand reached for her own bruised one, but Arya shook her head in protest. Wincing, she propped herself up into a sitting positon, breathing hard as she leaned against the rail. 

“What…in seven hells…was that?” 

Although a small group of men now surrounded her, the crew no doubt, she looked only at Jaime. With a grim face, his eyes met her own. “It seems like the Tyrells have grown thorns.” Jaime turned his face and spat at his feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The adventure is finally beginning! Thanks for reading and let me know what you're looking forward to/hope to see in future chapters.


	8. Chapter 8

Dust shimmered in the pale rays seeping through the cracked wall. Jaime blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he stared at the wall. After the events last night, the crew had briefly introduced themselves before showing them to their room. The captain, Barrian Rok, was a known Targaryen loyalist and a former trader from Volantis. As they had descended below deck, a strange mixture of Volantene, Low Valyrian, and the Common Tongue flowed freely through the crew. Because of the nature of their mission, the queen had sent a rather small ship, with only a few cabins to accommodate those of higher status. 

Jaime rolled over in his cot, turning his back on the low rumble of the sea. A few feet was all that separate him from the Stark girl, still asleep despite the constant rolling sea. She slept peacefully, no doubt exhausted from last night’s attack. With her long, deep brown hair fanning out, hanging low over the cot’s edge to meet the floor, she almost looked innocent. _Except for that dagger she clutches_ , he noted, staring at the blade held loosely in her fingers. As Jaime made to sit up, a sound filtered through the cabin door. 

“Yes, yes!” the voice moaned, followed by some rather loud banging. Jaime sighed, falling back into bed. _It appears the captain brought another woman aboard_ , he groaned internally. Glancing over, he saw that Arya had awoken. The girl now lay on her side, cheek flattened by the hard matrass and clutching a pillow to her ear. 

“Did our crew-mates wake you?” he teased, earning a glare and a groan. 

“Only the Volantene fuck this loudly,” she managed, despite her squished face. 

Surprised by her comment, Jaime propped himself up on an elbow to stare at her. “And what would you know about fucking?” 

Arya threw the pillow at the wall, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side. Her bare feet barely touched the floor, swinging loosely. “More than you think,” she jested, flashing a wicked grin. 

Now intrigued, Jaime sat up to match her positon. He noticed the slight flick of her eyes over his bare chest before meeting his own. “Tell me about your first time. I assume you’re no maiden.” 

Although her eyes darkened, she shrugged. “Fine. It was in Braavos, I was fourteen.” She said this simply, carelessly. 

_A little too carelessly_ . Now uncertain if he wanted to hear the rest, Jaime opened his mouth to stop her but was interrupted as the girl continued. 

“There was a man I was supposed to kill, Ser—some big Westerosi brute. He liked to frequent brothels. Braavosi cater to all tastes, and this one liked young girls. ” Arya paused, swallowing. “You would think I’d remember the pain, the terrified feeling, but I don’t. All I remember is the sweet look of surprise on his ugly face as my dagger opened his throat.” 

Jaime’s heart thudded, and he found himself at loss for words. After several loud heartbeats, he said, “That’s terrible.” The words scratched at his dry tongue, coming out hoarse. 

Arya blinked once, twice, before shaking her head as if to clear the memory away. “Tell me about yours,” she said quietly, staring down at her dangling feet. 

“I was also young, mayhap fifteen. There was a girl where I grew up, at the Rock.” He looked away, choosing his words carefully. _Although all of Westeros knows of my past, perhaps this girl does not_. “A beautiful girl, kissed by the sun and the gods.” 

She nodded, raising her head. “And where is she now?” 

A dark, haunting memory swam before his eyes. _She got the same fate as your first_ , he wanted to say. Instead, he replied simply, “I haven’t a clue.” It wasn’t a lie, Jaime had no idea where Cersei had ended up. _One of the seven heavens or hells. The later, no doubt_. 

By this point the moaning has ceased, the ship now alive with other noises. From above he could hear the pattering of feet and the jumbled song of voices. Jaime got up, walking over to his chest and pulling out a fresh tunic. Following his lead, Arya did the same. As she dressed in some thin breeches and a woven top, Jaime tried not to stare. It became especially hard as she shimmied out of her mud-stained breeches, her pale skin illuminating their dark cabin. 

Now clothed, she spun around to grab her sword belt, buckling it to her hips. Arya gave him one of her mischievous, knowing smiles as she deftly braided her long hair. “Gods, you take longer than me,” she jested as Jaime hurriedly laced up his boots. 

After climbing the stairs they emerged, blinking, above deck. All around turquoise waves rolled gently, carrying the ship along in quiet agreement. The deck was crowded, with men of all colors running to and fro as the day began. Winding his way through, with Arya on his heels, he finally arrived at the captain’s solar. 

Inside the heavily windowed room sat Barrian, mulling over a map while picking from a bowl of fruit. The captain looked up when they entered, flashing an inviting smile. 

“Welcome, my friends! It is good to see you in the daylight, good ser!” Barrian noticed Arya, whom he hadn’t met last night. His grin widened as he reached across the table to kiss her hand. “And what a beauty you are, good lady! Your wife, no?” He directed the question at Jaime, but to her credit, Arya only smiled in response. _No doubt she knows the pleasantries required to keep a captain happy. It’s only them between you and the sea_. 

Jaime chuckled goodheartedly. “Alas, she is not. This is Arya Stark, my…traveling companion, a girl from the East.” He was unsure of how much the captain knew of their mission, deciding it best to keep most a secret. 

Barrian cocked his head, frowning. “The East, you say? Bah! Your girl is same as you, from Westeros. They don’t make them that pretty in Essos!” He let out a great bellow before popping a grape into his mouth, the juice streaming down his jaw. 

“True, a born northerner but she lived for many years in the East. Perhaps she even has knowledge of your native tongue.” Jaime glanced over at Arya, who glared before painting on a smile. 

“Dōrior dārion udrirzi mijessis,” she replied in High Valyrian, earning another kiss on the hand. She turned to Jaime, smiling painfully. “No kingdom lacks a language,” she translated before wiping her sticky hand across the tablecloth. 

Jaime raised an eyebrow in approval before turning back to the captain. “Tell me of our voyage,” he remarked, taking a seat and gesturing for Arya to do the same. Barrian clapped his hands, and from a curtained doorway an olive-skinned woman emerged carrying a tray heaped with breads, fruits, and cheeses. She was plump, but comely in a foreign way. As she walked around the table, balancing the tray, Jaime shared a look with Arya, both of them fighting the urge to laugh. _Our morning wake-up call_ _has a face_. 

“My wife!” Barrian called out, slapping her arse playfully on the way out. “We switch, no?” he said, pointing a butter knife from Arya to himself. 

Jaime sighed, ignoring Barrian’s question and Arya’s jarring elbow to the ribs. “How long remains of the voyage?” 

Barrian took a large bite out of his bread before responding, crumbs latching onto his wiry beard. “Two weeks, if the gods are good. I don’t only carry pretty Westerosi on my ship, silk and spice too. My Braavosi friends demand much this season, they say bad things are to come.” 

“What kinds of bad things?” It was Arya who spoke this time, grabbing a peeled orange. 

“Nonsense, good lady. These Braavosi worry too much and think too little!” 

Arya frowned as she pried apart the juicy slices with the tip of her dagger. “Tell me anyhow,” she demanded. 

A look of concern washed over the captain’s face before resuming its jolly expression. “More pirates on the sea, more demons in the shadows. Stories for little boys and girls!” 

Sensing his uneasiness, Jaime reached forward to give the captain a comforting pat on the hand. “Do not worry, my friend. The queen pays you to take us there, that is all. We can find further transportation ourselves.” 

Barrian gave a relieved look. “Thank you, good ser. And I thank the silver queen. Excuse me now, I have a ship to sail!” He pushed back from the map-laden table, shaking Jaime’s hand and planting a sloppy kiss on Arya’s cheek before heading out. 

Jaime looked to his right, where Arya was licking juice off the tip of her dagger. “Not the strangest man I’ve met. Sailors are always a funny lot. At least they’ve got good fruit.” 

He nodded, standing up. “I’m going out to meet the crew. It’s probably best that you stay here or below deck, where it’s not dangerous.” Just as his hand reached the brass doorknob, something sharp tickled the back of his neck. Moving just his eyes, Jaime focused in on the tip of a dagger pressed into the nape of his neck. 

“Dangerous for a pretty lion, perhaps.” Although Jaime could not turn his head, he could hear the wicked smile playing on her lips. She laughed, lowering the blade and stepping in front of him to yank open the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun chapter, a bit of a filler but it has interesting information. As always, please review! I would love some feedback on how you like Arya’s character. I always imagined her becoming quite a different person because of all that she’s been through, at least on the outside. Let me know what you think, thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

Arya breathed in the crisp air, perfumed by the familiar spicy scent that could only truly belong to one city: Braavos. She smiled up as the ship passed through the Titan’s widespread legs, shadowed for the briefest of seconds before emerging into the bustling port. Jaime walked up beside her, leaning on the rail as he looked over the city. 

“Different from King’s Landing,” she commented as a courtesan barge floated lazily past, slickened men and woman dancing and posing from the deck. Arya watched Jaime’s eyes as he took everything in, the wonder and shock evident in the flecked green. 

“It was always my brother who dreamed of seeing the world, never me. I was content with a sword in my hand and some gold in my pocket. And look at me now…” He trailed off, absorbed in the sights and smells. 

To Arya, Braavos was really the only place that felt like home. She had spent so much time here as a girl, learning and listening until the city became part of her. 

“Lower the damn anchor!” a voice boomed from behind. Jaime broke his gaze, smiling as Barrian clapped him on the shoulder, rumbling with laughter. “You like the city, no? I have seen many a Westerosi knights come here, never to return!” 

The ship came to a jarring halt, sending Arya flying forward before she fastened onto the nearest thing: Jaime. He stumbled backwards against her weight, sending the both of them crashing against the slippery deck. 

“Hells, girl!” he exclaimed, but Arya knew it was said in jest. Feeling her face flush, Arya quickly pushed off his chest and pulled herself back up. 

“So sorry, _my lord_ ,” she scoffed, trying to rub out a suspicious new stain from her breeches. Jaime rolled his eyes and made his way to the ramp, now lowered to meet the rickety dock below. Barrian had anchored the ship in one of the poorer sections of the port, as not to draw suspicion from the Braavosi sealords and nobles. 

Ignoring the ramp, Arya leaped over the rail, landing smoothly on her feet under Jaime’s exasperated eye. “What? You were taking to long.” 

Once Jaime had caught up, Arya offered out her arm. He cast a suspicious look before grudgingly taking it, allow her to lead him towards the main port. “It’s not like you know where to go,” she explained. 

“And where do _you_ plan on going? I’d say we make for the Iron Bank and ask if we could borrow coin for a ship. They’ve supported the queen—” 

“And would love nothing more than to lock up the son of the lion that fucked them over,” she interrupted. “Just…wait for me here, all right? I’ve got to take care of something.” Before Jaime could open his mouth Arya slipped away from his arm, weaving in front of some old crone waving fish in her face. 

“And what am I supposed to do?!” she heard Jaime call out as he attempted to follow. 

“Buy yourself something pretty!” Arya yelled back before slipping between two arguing sellswords, disappearing into the crowd. 

The great doors loomed tall and proud before her, but Arya was not daunted by this place. The House of Black and White had been her home for many moons as well as place to return to after completing assignments. Arya paused, breathing in the damp scent and remembering her last time in the House. 

_“A girl has returned, successful?” Jaqen H'ghar asked, his voice clear and sure. Even when she made no sound entering the temple, he always knew._

_“Yes,” Arya whispered. “Who does The Many Faced God claim next?” Now he turned around, his bright eyes solemn._

_“A girl will take not only one, but two this time. She will travel to the land of the Andals to take the dragon queen and her king.”_

_Confusion clouded her eyes. “Daenerys Targaryen has no king.”_

_Jaqen clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Then a girl will be patient. The Many Faced God will wait until this queen is ready.”_

_Arya closed her eyes at the word “queen”, but she was not afraid. The Many Faced God took the weak and powerful alike, but she could not help but question this choice. “Why? I hear that the dragon queen is very good and just.”_

_He clicked again. “A girl should not ask these questions. You know that only death can pay for life. Someone in the far East steals from The Many Faced God, and we must pay him back. The lives of two dragons will pay for many. Go now, child. Go find the dragon queen and king.”_

After adjusting to the darkness, Arya padded forward through entryway. Looking around, she realized that the temple was empty, the only sign of movement being the tranquil stream of the fountain. _It is never empty in the House of Black and White, there are always those who which to leave this world_ . Hugging the wall, Arya made her way around to the adjacent tunnel’s entrance. Just as she poked her head around the corner, a rattling clatter caused her to freeze, pulling away. She listened, not breathing, as muffled footsteps shuffled over to pick the object up, metal scraping on the slick floor. First one, than another voice screeched in a strange, nasal tongue. The voices grew louder, and as Arya peeked out once more, she saw long, human-like shadows entranced in some kind of brawl. _Jaqen is not here_ , she realized as the screeches grew higher, the shrieks echoing in the narrow tunnel. Arya ran, as fast as possible in the darkness towards the thin beam of light escaping from the temple doors. She did not look back, allowing the rush of fear and dread to carry her, hopefully unheard, away from the House. 

Arya pulled back her hair, swiping back the loose wisps in an attempt to compose herself. Pushing through the dense crowd, she made her way to where she hoped Jaime would be waiting. “Jaime!” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. Only a swaggering sellsword answered her call, hooting with a near toothless grin. 

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath. _Where could he have gone?_ Arya tapped the shoulder of the woman to her right. With amber doe-eyes the woman blinked up, smirking with her blue lips. 

“Yes, pretty girl?” the woman cooed in a heavy accent, twirling a loose strand of hair. 

Arya sighed. _I have forgotten what the whores of Braavos are like—they seduce anyone who might show them a coin_. “I’m looking for someone; a tall, Westerosi knight with golden hair.” The whore feigned confusion, batting her lashes. “Fine,” Arya snapped, pulling out an iron piece. The woman took it greedily, slipping it far into her silks. 

“Over there,” she said, jerking her chin. Arya turned to look—the whore had nodded towards one of the many Braavosi taverns. 

Before she could thank her the woman had slipped away, now walking her fingers up some rapt merchant’s chest. Arya wove in and out through the market before coming to a halt before the tavern. “The Dragoness” a seasoned plaque read, the gold paint chipping from years of Braavosi sea-storms. Inside men of all kinds laughed and slapped their thighs, wine splashing from their overflowing cups. To her right a serving wench leaned over a table, taking an order from a blue-bearded Tyroshi while his friend fondled at her hip. Arya tried to squeeze past the narrow aisle when a clammy hand yanked her back by the wrist. 

“Come sit with us, eh pretty girl?” The man leered up with beady eyes, dark wine dribbling down his coarse beard. Three other men sat round the table, jeering in agreement. 

“Piss on that,” Arya spat, slipping her dagger into her palm. His grip tightened, jerking her forward. Arya watched as his eyes slid from breast to hip before narrowing in on her sword. 

“Whadda you need that for? We’ll give you a real sword, won’t we?” He laughed, wine spurting from his fat lips. Arya smiled back coldly, bending down to his ear and placing her hand on his neck. From where she stood the man’s friends were blocked from sight, but Arya could hear their whistles as she leaned in. 

“Who needs a real sword? That’s what daggers are for,” she whispered. His eyes widened in child-like horror as Arya shifted her hand, allowing the dagger to glide smoothly into his meaty neck. “Puncture wounds take forever to bleed out, what a pity.” Arya smirked, straightening up and wiggling her fingers in goodbye. The friends increased their hollering, oblivious to their now gurgling friend, his mouth puffy and swollen with blood. 

“Arya!” A sloppy shout came from the far corner. Making her way over, she could see Jaime waving his golden hand. As she got closer, she made out the others seated at the shadowed table. Four men, seemingly Braavosi nobles, stared curiously up at her. “Ah, yes. Very good you’re here. I’ve just been saying, _wife_ , how kind it is for these men to share their ship up the Rhoyne with us.” His words were slurred, tumbling loosely from his tongue. _After two weeks at sea, he chooses_ now _to get drunk?_

Playing along, Arya discreetly sheathed her dagger down the back of her breeches before smiling warmly at first Jaime then the Braavosi. “How wonderful, _my lord husband_ and good sers.” Arya slid into Jaime’s lap, portraying the ever-dutiful wife. “How wonderful,” she repeated, pinching Jaime hard in the ribs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in so long, but I hope you enjoy this chapter and please let me know what you thought of it!


	10. Chapter 10

“I still _cannot_ believe that you did this!” The words hit the same time as the icy water—stinging and harsh. Jaime sputtered, muscles clenching as he tried to shield himself from the next bucket. 

“If you do that one more time I swear—” His fingers scrambled for his sword, only to find it missing. _And of course the wolf-bitch stole my sword_ , he thought, huffing. Finally daring to open his eyes, he squinted at the girl before him, taking in the hands placed angrily at her hips. “What the bloody hell was I supposed to do? You disappeared, remember? That left finding a ship up to me. It’s not like we’ll be floating down the Rhoyne in a pleasure barge!” 

“Oh, and ship full of whoring, gambling Braavosi nobles is so much better?” Arya let the buck fall down, the remaining ice chips sliding out onto the Myrish carpet. 

“Who cares? They think I’m some wealthy lord from Westeros, and it’s not like we haven’t got the coin.” _At least Daenerys had the sense to fill up our purses._

“And of course I’ve got to play your swooning new lady wife?” 

Jaime grinned sheepishly. Granted, he’d been drunk when he thought of it, but it _was_ the least questionable option. “Either that or you’ll spend two months being courted by all kinds of Braavosi nobles.” 

Arya just glared at him. “If you even try to put your hands on me—” 

“You’ll dagger me in the neck. Noted.” As they had followed the swirling Braavosi robes from the tavern, Jaime had noticed a purple-face man with blood streaming from his nose. Not that his friends noticed—they were all too busy drowning in their cups or the serving wench’s breasts. “It’s just till we reach Volantis, then you can go back to swinging a sword and rolling in shit or whatever else you do.” With that Jaime left the room, wringing out the end of his soaked tunic as he walked. 

It was a strange ship, like nothing he’d ever seen back in Westeros. Incredibly long and swift was the hull, perfect for the narrow rivers frequent in the East. Despite being wickedly quick, the ship was fashioned as to serve its patrons every luxury imaginable—draped, mysterious rooms filled with exotic fruits and women, tiled ballrooms and baths, and even a fighting arena to train in at your leisure. The captain, Tychys Sanerion, had given his Westerosi guests a fine cabin, insisting that the “newlywed Andals” travel in upmost comfort. Jaime didn’t doubt that it had more to do with the heavy purse he had handed over on their way aboard, but did not argue with the loud Braavosi. 

“Could you point me to the baths?” he said, stopping the first man he’d come upon in the long hallway. 

The man looked up, cheerfully babbling in something that sounded a bit like Valyrian before pointing to an azure-painted door. Jaime clapped him on the back, shaking his head in amusement as he pulled open the ivory handle. A sweetened steam greeted him, billowing out into the hall. Stepping inside, he found a mostly empty pool attended by two willowy girls, who smiled obediently from their perches. 

Stripping out of his damp clothes and unbuckling his hand, Jaime slid into the steaming water, groaning at the heat worked at his muscles. _I’ve got to say…this bath is quite nicer than the one I shared with the wench_. 

“Gooday to you ser!” A voice called from the opposite side. Jaime held up a hand politely, nodding. 

“Day, is it?” He wondered out loud. The man chuckled, wadding closer till Jaime could make out his features in the fog. He was fair of skin, with flecks of silver by his ears hinting that he was a bit older than Jaime himself. “Are you from Westeros?” 

“Aye, Eliar Durwell of Duskendale, but I do business in the capital. You?” 

Duskendale, he remembered, was a large port city just north of King’s Landing. “Ser Kevan of House Lorch, from here and there,” he said casually, not daring to use his real name. _Oh how my father and uncle would have loved this_. 

“And what brings you to the great barges of Braavos—business or pleasure?” 

Jaime chuckled before responding. “Pleasure I suppose, I’m here with my new lady wife.” 

“Ah, the northern beauty I saw climbing aboard, I suppose! A wild creature from the looks of her! Reminds me of a girl I once saw in the capitol… Lady… Arabella?... Amerila?... Ary—” 

“Bryanna,” Jaime said quickly, cutting him off. “Lady Bryanna,” he repeated, sharply this time. 

Eliar raised his palms from the steaming pool in appeasement. “You have nothing to worry about, my friend. I’ve got a girl at home. But these Braavosi,” he tutted, “they’re the ones to watch out for…” 

Clearing his throat, Jaime eased back against the tiled pool wall. “Do you have news from the capital?” 

“Aye. In fact I got a raven just the other day. Apparently there was an attack on the queen.” 

Water streamed from his shoulders as he sat up, intent. “Is she all right?” Although he had heard sailors in Braavos chatting about tidings in the kingdoms, none had mentioned the outcome of that night. _If the Tyrells took the keep already…this whole mission is for naught._

Eliar gave him a questioning look. “Why, of course she is, my friend! There are stories that some unmarked soldiers, dressed only in pink, snuck in, only to be roasted alive by the queen herself!” 

Now it was Jaime’s turn to look quizzical, but he did his best not to roll his eyes. _Doubtful, but at least they say she is unharmed._

After exchanging a few more pleasantries with the Westerosi trader, Jaime excused himself and climbed out of the bath. One of the girls handed him a thick towel and a clean tunic and breeches, winking as he dried himself off and changed. 

Arriving back at his cabin, Jaime quietly unlocked the door and slipped inside. Arya had left only one beeswax candle burning, so he softly blew out the flame before glancing over at the bed. Tychys had rejected Jaime’s demand for two beds, insisting that Jaime “take his rights” with his new bride. He sighed, looking down. Arya’s chest rose and fell beneath the silk sheets, her movement somehow more noticeable than the faint rocking of the swift ship. Walking around to the opposite side, Jaime pulled back the sheets and climbed in. 

“Get out,” Arya groaned, rolling over as he lowered his weight onto the mattress. 

“Your my wife, wolf girl. Remember?” he teased, earning a halfhearted smack. 

“I’ll still knife you in your sleep,” she murmured, voice thick and hoarse. 

Jaime smiled, almost tempted to reach out and stoke the tumbling curls splayed out in front of him. “I’m sure you will,” he whispered, shutting his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a while, I've been very busy with school. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please let me know your favorite part or line in the comments! Thanks!


	11. Chapter 11

_Golden eyes flickered through the dense brush. Arya pulled herself up with a low branch, peering out into the darkness. “Nymeria!” she called out, the orbs growing brighter, closer. The direwolf padded lightly into the clearing, tail wagging in pure bliss. There was something different about the direwolf now; she had grown into her name, a name reserved for the fabled warrior-princess of Dorne._

_“You’re back, Nymeria. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Arya choked back her sobs, burying her face into the wolf’s shaggy coat. “I’m so alone here,” she whispered to the wolf, to the trees. “This isn’t my home anymore.” Nymeria let out a sad yip, turning thrice in a circle before settling down behind Arya. She felt safe now, pressed against the warm, comforting body of her wolf._

“Never leave me,” Arya murmured, pulling herself closer to the warm— 

“ _Fuck_!” she whispered. It appeared that at one point during the night Jaime had forgotten her warning, as she was now pinned tightly against his chest. _And of course I left my dagger on the night table._ Arya tried to squirm out from his strong hold, only enticing him to grip tighter as he sighed into his sleep. 

“Jaime!” she hissed, elbowing his chest. He murmured something inaudible into her hair. “Jaime!” Arya repeated, this time bringing up a foot, kicking at his shin. 

He startled, but instead of rolling backwards and off he rolled _forwards_ , caging her beneath his arms. “It’s not nice to kick someone who’s sleeping,” Jaime accused in a teasing, albeit drowsy voice as he smirked down at her. 

Arya flushed, turning her head to the side to avoid looking at his face. _An inch apart_ , she couldn’t help but notice. “Get the fuck off me, Jaime.” 

Jaime chuckled, rolling off and onto his side. “As you wish, my lady.” 

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, untangling herself from the sheets and climbing out. Ignoring his stare Arya ducked behind the paneled changing wall, peeling off her traveling clothes and slipping on a simple, Braavosi-style gown she had lain out the previous night. The airy fabric was perfect for the humid climate of the cities, but perhaps not as much so for the cooler rivers. _The captain must have put our trunks in storage_ , she mused. 

“I’m going to explore the ship,” she declared, glaring at the still groggy knight. Jaime let out what sounded like a protest before falling back onto the soft pillows. “If we’re going to be spending two months in this place, we’d better make some rich Braavosi friends.” 

“I’m Kevan and your name’s Bryanna! And don’t do anything stupid” Jaime called out in a thick voice as the door slammed behind her. 

_I wonder what the old knight would consider stupid?_ Arya wondered, grinning as she stepped into the hall. 

It was well past midnight before Jaime found Arya. He had spent the day chatting with the captain and his crew, learning much of the Braavosi customs and ways. Apparently this particular barge, _The Screaming Siren_ , was host to a bastard son of Tormo Fregar himself, the current Braavosi sealord. Later in the afternoon a noble, nothing more than a grinning green boy, had challenged Jaime to a mock duel in one of the ship’s fighting arenas. 

“We shall see who is the best man!” The amethyst-robed boy had loudly declared, twirling a flashing silver blade from his hand. “The dashing young lord or a crippled Andal?” _The lad will sing songs of the golden Westerosi knight who bested him_ , Jaime recalled, smirking. 

Jaime now emerged above deck, smiling up at the golden stars dusting the night sky. “A Lannister finally sees gold besides the pieces he shits,” Jaime muttered under his breath. 

On the north side of the deck a large crowd had drawn, dancing and drinking beneath a wide sheer tent. _It’s like the Braavosi don’t even know they’re on a boat._ Smiling and nodding as he pushed his way through the boisterous (and rather drunk) party, Jaime stumbled into the center. 

“Seven. Fucking. Hells!” he cried out, eyes widening at the scene before him. Lying across a round table, once covered in colorful glasses of wine based on the smashed crystal littered about, was Arya. Men and woman alike laughed and tipped back their goblets, hollering at their supposed entertainment. Gown torn open and breasts spilling out, Arya arched her back as a red-bearded man crawled up to her, bending low over her exposed chest. Jaime stood frozen in horror, his heart thumping madly in its cage. 

“He has to remove the dagger without his hands!” a man yelled into Jaime’s ear with sickly-sweet breath. “That’s how yeh win a Braavosi drinking game!” The man laughed, snorting into his cup. 

“Excuse me?” Jaime hissed, blinking back into reality as hot rage clouded his eyes. He pushed roughly past the drunkard and knocked a goblet from a woman’s hand as he reached the table. _So much for not doing anything stupid_ , he seethed. Just as the bearded man began to suck at space between her breasts with the blade between his teeth, Jaime ripped him away by the neck, tossing him carelessly back against the excited onlookers. 

“Game’s over!” Jaime shouted over his shoulder, the party hissing in disappointment. He bent down, scooping Arya up into his arms. Her head lolled back as she tried to weakly protest, and when he hoisted her up Jaime could smell the hard stench on her breath. Fuming, Jaime carried her past the now hushed crowd and stomped loudly down the stairs to their cabin below deck. 

After setting the near-lifeless girl onto the bed, Jaime rummaged through his trunk, throwing over a long tunic. “Change,” he commanded, turning. When he finally thought it safe to look Jaime walked back over and sat beside her. Arya was cross-legged and childlike in the swimming tunic, holding her head in her hands. 

“So when I said don’t do anything stupid…” Jaime started, raising an eyebrow. 

“I thought you meant don’t _kill_ anyone,” Arya tried to jest, but it came out in more of a low groan. Jaime stared at her expectantly till she raised her eyes, bloodshot and fogged from the liquor. “Why do you even care so much?” 

Jaime ground his teeth but tried not to sound too angry. “I promised Daenerys that I’d protect you on this mission, Arya.” 

“ _Protect_ me? I can do that myself. I never needed someone before,” she huffed. 

“So I was supposed to just leave you there, half naked while some dirty Braavosi had his way with you? Thanks, but I’d rather suffer your wrath instead. Besides, what do you think the nobles would think if they saw my “wife” like that? We don’t have time for the questions, Arya. The less they suspect the better. You know how dangerous things got in King’s Landing the night we left, and there’s no telling who might be a spy over here. Just trust me.” 

Arya drew up her knees, exposing the pale undersides of her thighs as the tunic rode up. Jaime looked away, clenching his jaw. “Trust you?” she said quietly, almost to herself. Then again, louder. “ _Trust you_?” He looked back over, taking in her flashing eyes. “Why would I trust you, _kingslayer_?” 

_Ah, so this is her problem_ , Jaime thought bitterly as he sucked on his teeth. “The queen appointed me.” 

Arya chucked from the bed. “Tell me why she would do something so _stupid_ ,” she spat, waiting for his reply. 

“It doesn’t—” 

“ _Tell me_.” 

Jaime looked away again, staring at the flayed threads hanging limply her discarded gown. “She gave me a choice,” he whispered. 

“Go on,” Arya said, her voice now soft. 

He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, before continuing. “It was after she arrived in King’s Landing. After dealing with the Wall and the Riverlands, she flew south to the capitol. The dragons burned through whole villages, even outskirts of the city.” 

“I know how the war went, Jaime,” she reminded him firmly. _I know, but that’s what is easy to tell_. 

“My family and the Tyrells were holed up in the keep, praying foolishly that the dragon queen wouldn’t win. We were wrong. It was the bumbling fool, Mace Tyrell, who opened our gates that day. I still remember what she looked like when the attack started.” 

“Daenerys?” 

“No…my twin. The unsullied attacked, grabbing Myrcella and King Tommen and the rest while I fought. But I dropped my sword when I saw knives at all of their throats. The queen—that tiny, child-of-a-queen—had my sister by the hair, a Valyrian dagger pressed against her white throat.” 

“Did she kill her?” 

Another swallow. “The queen gave me a choice and threw Cersei down at my feet,” he said thickly. “Two choices; ‘Kill your sister and you, as well as your kin, may keep your lives so long as you swear complete fealty to my rule. Or you watch as the children burn alive.” 

A hand tentatively reached for his face, brushing at his cheek with trembling fingers. Jaime watched as Arya drew back her hand, staring at her shiny fingertips. “Tell me,” she whispered. 

Jaime took a ragged breath. “Cersei screamed at me to save her, and in that moment I hated my sister. She never looked at her frightened, crying children. She just looked at me with wild, weeping eyes…and I hated her. All my life I’d been ruled by my sister, a loyal servant to her every whim. Even after Cersei turned her back on me, I was expected to save her… and so I wrapped my golden hand around her soft neck… _Valonqar_ was the final word to pass her lips. Ever since that day I swore myself the silver queen. I do not fully understand it myself, why I did it.” 

Arya shifted closer, leaning against his arm. “Jaime…you cared about your children.” 

He nodded against her hair, blinking at his stinging eyes. “I once said that we don’t choose whom we love…but nothing really matters in the end…” Jaime trailed off, leaning into the girl beside him. Looking down, he watched as Arya traced shapes on his golden palm. A voice—her voice—began to softly sing in a high, airy tone. 

“ _You swam beneath the deepest sea,_

_To pick up what I had ‘lost’._

_But my dear, that’s where I mean to be,_

_To join the tears I’d tossed.”_

Jaime pulled slightly away, her sad words swimming before his eyes. “What is that?” he asked, searching her face. He realized that the song had touched her eyes, two streaks winding down her pale cheeks. 

“I heard it once, on some ship somewhere. I don’t know what it’s called.” 

“Why do you cry?” he asked gently. 

“You’re not the only one with a sad story, Jaime.” She sniffed once before hastily wiping at her face. “Thank you for before,” she said in quiet composure. 

With that Jaime saw as she donned her mask—a pretty, deadly mask—and leaned back against the bed, curling up beneath the sheets. Jaime followed her, easing back and pulling one arm behind his head. They laid there in the darkness, and Jaime knew that sleep refused Arya as well. Without turning, without looking, Jaime stretched out his fingers to meet hers, hanging on by a simple touch to the sad girl drifting down the river beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and please let me know what you thought of this chapter! Do you have any guesses as to where their relationship is headed? Anything you'd like to see?


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole of this piece is on FF.net, but I was thinking I could add more chapters here. Thanks for reading :)

            Following that night Jaime and Arya quickly slipped into a pattern—spending their days together but always reminded of a quiet reservation that hung over the air, even despite the ever cooling breeze. Arya wasn’t quite sure _why_ things had changed; perhaps it had to do with the revelation of Jaime’s past, and how it reminded her so much of her own. Or perhaps it was the growing comfort that _The Shrieking Siren_ provided, for nothing bad seemed to happen on the exotic barge. The strange people, the spicy food, the cabins and baths and decks dripping and draped in foreign luxury made Arya nearly forget her belief that pretty things always come at a price.

            “Eliar informs me that we should reach Volantis by nightfall,” Jaime told her. The two of them stood by the very tip of the barge, right above the ebony siren guiding the slender ship. Arya supposed that she was once beautiful, carved from rich wood into the form of a singing maiden, but now she was covered in a thick coat of the river she reigned over, crusted in salt, kelp, and rot. _Only this siren sings the truth_ , Arya thought as she peered down. _And how sad she is, alone in her disillusionment._

            “And you believe your friend?

            Jaime shrugged, staring out at the river. Although the sun had began its decent into the horizon, dense fog hung over the water, showing them only a hazy orange glow from all sides. Not even the river’s edge could be made out in the heavy gloom. “He is a trader,” Jaime put simply.

            Arya frowned. “A trader from King’s Landing, you mean. The man may know every port and fisherman on the Blackwater but the gods in the Seven Kingdoms do not curse us with these fogs. Your friend cannot see the city just as I cannot see my own hand.” She stuck her hand out from the rail, squinting and trying to decipher her own palm. Jaime’s eyes followed—her hand was nowhere to be seen.

            “Yes, all right. I see your point,” he snapped, snatching her arm away from the edge. Arya grinned simply because Jaime had been proven wrong. “But if the fog _did_ clear out we’d be staring at a city, not your damn fingers.”

            It was far later in the evening when Arya noticed that the ship began to slow. “Jaime!” she hissed, shoving him. They had settled into a bench overlooking the river, and Jaime had eventually fallen sleep against her. _So now I have to wake him_ and _tell him he’s right?_ A slowing ship at this hour could only mean one thing—they had arrived.

            When he didn’t stir, Arya flicked his cheek, rolling her eyes as he yawned lazily. “I told you so,” he teased, groaning as he stretched his arms.

            Looking out, Arya realized that the fog was becoming brighter—orbs of yellow, orange, red, and green popping up in the distance until the light became flames and the flames became a city bursting vividly from the darkness. “I have never been to Volantis before,” Arya whispered.

            Jaime opened his mouth, speechless at the blurred luminosity that lay before them. After closing his mouth twice and licking his lips, Jaime turned to her, his eyes showing a strange mixture of bewilderment and amusement. “And I thought you’d been everywhere in the East.”

            Closer and closer, slower and slower they drifted towards the city. As they neared port the sticky fog began to lift, revealing a city bathed in the light of a million stars and torches. “That’s the Long Bridge,” Arya said, pointing to her right as the ship came to a smooth halt. “They say it is one of the nine wonders built by man.” She stared up at the looming structure, transfixed by the shops and people and—elephants?—that seemed to occupy the road high above.

            “Arya,” he hissed into her ear. Annoyed, she turned to follow his gaze. “We have company.”

            On the far side of the barge a ramp had been lowered to the dock, but it was not the swarming Braavosi nobles drawing their gaze. Arya cupped a hand to her ear while Jaime looked on, hand at his sword.

            “ Lanta vesterosīha…valzȳrys se ābrazȳrys…” It was the low, worried voice of their captain, Tychys, speaking in High Valyrian to a group of soldiers on the dock. _Two Westerosi, husband and wife_.

            “What are they saying?” Jaime whispered. Arya waved her hand impatiently, hushing him.

            “Tychys is talking about _us_ , Jaime. He sounds confused. Now please _shut up_ so I can hear.”

            Arya took a step forward, hiding herself behind the mast to hear better. “Pōnta ila. Āeksio ondos mīsio se zoklītsos hēnkirī, qelbōñe… gēlion dāria,” one of the Volantene shot back, his tongue quick and harsh. _They lie. Hand of gold knight and little wolf together, coming from a river._ That was all she could make out, and it was enough.

            “Skorio syt?” Tychys asked as the soldiers began to push their way aboard, Braavosi onlookers beginning to scatter in fear. “Kelītīs!” _Why_? _Stop!_

“Jaime we have to go, _now_.” As she said it the soldiers pulled out their curved blades, one holding Tychys by the throat as the others grabbed the remaining nobles. Arya whipped her head around—the ramp was blocked, more soldiers were running up to the dock on all sides. _The river_.

Recognizing the threat—albeit a moment too late—Jaime started to unsheathe his great sword with a grim expression. “We’ll need to fight our way out. Stay here.”

            Arya grabbed Jaime’s hand, jerking him beside her behind the mast. “Do you know how to swim?” she asked in a low voice, breathing hard. Jaime paused and looked at her indignantly, still gripping the hilt of his half-drawn sword.

            “What the hell are you talking about?” he seethed. From behind a sharp clash of steel on steel rang out, followed by a scream. When she didn’t answer he finally hissed back, “Of course I do, wolf-girl. I grew up on the fucking Sunset Sea.”

            Nodding at his response, Arya pointed at the rail facing out towards the river, away from the docks. “Good.” With that she yanked him forward, sprinting towards the rail. Someone shouted in High Valyrian but she ignored it, feeling only the golden hand in hers and the slippery deck beneath her feet as she ran. The rail loomed closer and closer and right before her hips were about to come crashing against the wood she threw off Jaime’s hand and _jumped._  


	13. Chapter Thirteen

            He had no choice but to follow her. The dark river hit him like a shock, sending ice through his veins and fire to his lungs. But still Jaime dove deeper, squinting through the murky Rhoyne at Arya’s kicking feet leading the way. _And my father said that lions have no business learning to swim_.

            Gasping and gulping Jaime broke the surface. He looked madly around—the freezing water could start panic in even the calmest of men—until he saw Arya up ahead, already crawling ashore. It appeared that they had swum two hundred yards or so away from the ship, and now the only exit from the river was a modest beach, strewn with the broken glass left by drunkards and the broken bones left by fishwives. Dragging himself up the rocky shore, Jaime dropped down beside the girl. His head lolled to the side in exhaustion and he tried not to laugh—laughing hurt too much.

            “You,” he rasped, “you look like a wet cat.” And she did. Arya’s silk gown was thoroughly soaked through, clinging to every bone and bump jutting out from her slight frame. He leaned over to pick a strand of rotted kelp from her knotted hair, dangling the green weed above her face so that it tickled her nose.

            Arya scowled, snatching it from his hand. “This isn’t funny, Jaime. Someone knows that we’re here, and I really don’t think they want to chat…how could the Volantene know we were coming before we’d even arrived? And they knew about _me_ , Jaime. I’m supposed to be dead.”

            Jaime furrowed his brow. “It must have been someone on the ship, they could have sent a raven down to the city…”

            “Whatever, we can deal with that later. Right now we have to decide what to do next,” she said, patting herself until she found whatever she searched for. “Found it,” she declared, reaching into her clinging bodice and pulling out a dagger. Arya began to stand up, pushing off the rocky sand with her palms.

            “You are _not_ leaving,” Jaime hissed firmly, grabbing her ankle before she could step away.

            “Get the fuck off me, Jaime.” Arya wrenched free from his slippery grasp. She shot him a dark glare. “All of our things are back at the ship—my sword, our gold, our _clothes_ ,” she emphasized, picking at where the silk stuck to her skin. “You’re too recognizable, but no one looks too closely at a whore.”

            Before Jaime could protest the dagger ripped through her skirt, shearing the wet silk off till it barely grazed the tops of her milky thighs. She then moved to the bodice, tearing the front as to expose the tops of her breasts. He swallowed, setting his jaw at the stirring in his groin. _She’s just a girl_ , Jaime told himself as his face flushed. _Just a fucking she-wolf._ When the screeching of silk had stopped Jaime looked back up. Arya smirked from above, sheathing the dagger back down her much wider bodice till it settled against her ribs. “Do you really think I haven’t done this before?” Bending down, she gave Jaime a pat—reassuring or in pity he wasn’t sure—on the hand and then stepped away.

            “I’ll be back in an hour or so, stay here!” she called over her shoulder, disappearing into the dark with tattered silk swinging idly from her hips.

 

            “Wake up.” A soft voice commanded, followed by a nudge to his shoulder. “It’s time to go.” When Jaime opened his eyes brightness flooded in, prying at his lids. Squinting, Jaime looked around the small beach still he settled on Arya, standing above him with her foot at his side, now dressed in leather breeches and a sleeveless silk top. A sword hung from her hip. 

            “Why—how long were you gone?”

            Arya held out a hand, helping Jaime climb to his feet. “It took…longer than I thought. But I got our stuff back, and I even snagged some fishcakes from the dock.”

            “Do I want to know why pretending to be a whore to sneak into the dock took all night?”

            Arya raised an eyebrow. _I guess that answers that question._ “Get changed,” she retorted, turning to rummage through a crate and tossing him his clothes.

            Jaime peeled off his tunic and breeches—still damp from last night’s swim—and smirked at Arya’s bright face. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he teased. _Not a thing you say everyday to a cold northern maid… But then again, she’s no more northern than she is a maid anymore_.

            “Just hurry up,” she replied quietly, turning around and plopping herself down on the crate.

            Once clothed and dry, Jaime walked over and broke off half the cake in her hand. He chewed the salty dough as Arya plowed hungrily through her own. “So,” he started, wiping crumbs from his stubbled jaw, “what’s the plan?”

            “Well…we have three options. One—we take the Demon Road and hightail it out of this place. Two—we find a ship heading east through the Smoking Sea, but I doubt we’ll make it aboard without our throats first being slit. And three—we wait.”

            “Wait?” he replied in faint amusement.

            “Aye..” Jaime waited until she looked up from stuffing in a second cake. “Wha?” Jaime rolled his eyes as the soggy crumbs spewed from her lips. Finally, after chewing for what seemed like ages she spoke again. “It seems to me like anything bad that happens to us is caused by one plan or another. So we walk around the city and try not to get killed—or kill anyone for that matter—and _wait_ until those gods you pray to hold up a fucking sign that points to the way out,” she paused, yanking Jaime’s wineskin from his belt and taking a swig. “Maybe the Crone will light a fucking candle.” She pulled a face of mock amazement before tipping back the skin again.

            Exasperated, Jaime tore the wine away from her lips and nudged at her shoulder to scoot over, joining her on the crate. “I don’t believe in the Seven.” He swallowed the bitter drink, grimacing.

            A surprised look. “No? Then what do you believe in? Don’t tell me its your pretty sword,” she teased, bumping her knee playfully into his own. Jaime stared down at where their legs remained touching.

            “As a boy I never listened to the septons, all their books and rules and hells. I had something,” _someone_ , “else that I worshiped. The septons called me a fool when I told them.” Jaime chuckled but did not know why. “But I’ve always been a fool, I suppose.” A hand, a small hand, rested gently on his thigh—the gesture was comforting, he realized. _Why does she comfort me?_ It was not a question of her action; it was a question of himself.

            “In the North we had no names for our gods. Whatever, _whomever_ , you believed in did not matter. Just that you cared about something more than yourself.” Jaime covered her small hand with his own large one, squeezing her fingers. “Do you care, Jaime?” Arya whispered, and she too stared where they touched.

            _About the Gods? About my sister? About my father and brother and queen and sword and hand? About…_ Jaime lifted his palm until he could feel her smooth cheek against his flesh. A few grains of salt fell away. He ran his thumb from ear to jaw and felt the pale skin erupt with goose pimples under his touch. A hand remained on his thigh, but now the fingers clutched at the soft leather. Stilling his thumb at the corner of her mouth, he stared back at her swallowing grey eyes. They waited.

            And Jaime was done waiting. “Yes.” One word, a simple, quiet word and Jaime pulled her lips to his. She was hesitant at first, almost pulling away as if clouded by a thought but Jaime pressed forward, ignoring her pause with a wild abandon that had to reason for forgiveness. His desire grew stronger and she relented, kissing and tasting back as she too gave way to—

            “Psst!” The sound rang through the small beach and forced apart their lips. Jaime glanced once at Arya—she looked shaken now, eyes wide from what he could not say—before narrowing in on the far corner of the shore.

            “Show yourself,” he warned, sliding out his sword with a rush of steel.

            From the shadows a tall figure stepped forward and lowered its hood with a flashing grin. “I hate to interrupt, my friend, but I believe we have business to attend to.”

            “Option three it is,” Arya whispered from behind Jaime’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could it be?


	14. Chapter Fourteen

           “Ah, and who might this be? Jaime, won’t you introduce me to your…friend?”

            She watched in amusement as Jaime ground his teeth, obviously seething, but nevertheless waved his hand from one to the other. “Arya, this is Daario Naharis, the—”

            “Brave warrior and loyal companion to our great queen,” he said, his voice low and charming. _And just a hint of mockery to make it interesting._ “What a pleasure it is to meet you, Lady Stark.” Daario brushed past Jaime to pick up Arya’s hand, touching it lightly to his lips with a smile. The man was certainly not of Westeros, and his accent gave hints of something from the East. Myr perhaps.

            Arya remained unfazed by the charm, raising an eyebrow while trying to keep down the corners of her mouth. _This_ will _be fun_. “Stark, did you say?” She feigned confusion.

            “Even in Tyrosh,” _close enough_ , “our wet nurses tell stories of the mysterious northern lands, and the even more mysterious women who live there.” Over his shoulder she could see Jaime turn his head, fists clenching. “And of course you are Lady Arya Stark, of Winterfell.” Arya acknowledged this with a nod, returning his grin.

            “Daario, what the _hell_ are you doing in Volantis?” Jaime interrupted, breaking the Tyroshi’s gaze. “Daenerys sent you to treat with the counselors she left in Slaver’s Bay, not parade in some chained city whoring and drinking.” _This Daario character certainly has Jaime on edge_ … _but perhaps this is my fault, I shouldn’t have…_

            With a swish of his robes Daario turned around, smacking his lips and pulling a puzzled expression. “Well, my friend, the queen and I thought my many talents would be of use elsewhere. _Here_ , for that matter.” Daario winked at Arya over his shoulder. “Perhaps it is you two love birds in need of my assistance.”

            “We’re not—”

            “He’s not—”

            Daario looked between them, smirking. “Then maybe you ought not to travel as husband and wife, or whatever else you call…this.” A finger wagged between them, and Arya’s cheeks flushed. “If you plan on stealing some dragon eggs from Asshai, I suggest you find a new girl, Jaime. Perhaps you’ll pick one up in Volantis, I hear they do incredible things with their tongues….” 

            _Dragon eggs?_ Arya knew the queen had sent them to the cursed lands of the far East, but this was certainly news to her. _Why would Daenerys require…_

            “How do you know of this?” Jaime demanded, ignoring the jest.

            The sellsword turned and plopped down beside her on the crate, snatching a fishcake from an opened sack. “The queen told me about this plan to bring back more dragons once while we were busy fu—”

            “We get it, thanks,” Jaime snapped, eyes flicking between them.

            “Yes, well anyway,” he started munching from the dough, “why else would the two of you,” he pointed between them with the cake, “wind up together in the greatest city known to man…or is it just known to slave masters?” Daario pretended to ponder this under Arya’s amused stare and Jaime’s glowering one. _For fucks sake Jaime, calm down_ , she wanted to hiss.

            Instead, Arya scooted away the wineskin Daario had been reaching for with her foot. “So you’ll help us then?”

            “Well…I haven’t really thought about it,” he jested, pursing his lips as the wine moved away from his grasp. “What’s in it for me?”

            Jaime crossed his arms, eyes rolling. “Arya, we don’t need his help. I know him from court, he—”

            “Knows a hell of a lot more about where you’re going than the two of you,” Daario finished.

            “I’ve been east before—”

            “Ah, but have you been to the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, my fearsome wolf? Have the two of you ever fought thieves and rapists and demons?” He paused, frowning as they both started to speak. “Actually, don’t answer about the first two. But demons, my friends? I haven’t been in Westeros for that long, but the only demons I’ve seen have been the three dragons in the sky and the one dragon in my—”

            “Again, we understand. Now tell us what you want.” Arya glanced at the sellsword beside her, waiting.

            “For starters, get your watchdog to put away his sword.”

            Arya whipped her head around, giving the half-drawn blade a knowing look before Jaime shoved it away. “What else?”

            Daario smirked at Jaime before returning to her expectant gaze. “You.”

            She swallowed. _The second time I’ve heard that damn word today._ “What—what do you mean?” Arya didn’t dare to look at Jaime, keeping her eyes focused on Daario’s robed chest.

            “Well, it didn’t have to be _you_ , specifically. One of the many thing our gracious queen has requested is that I find myself a lady wife on this trip. For whatever reason the Khaleesi no longer desires my charming company.” Daario mockingly let out a long, hopeless sigh. The hot breath tickled her neck, making the hair stand up. “And who better than you, the ferocious daughter of winter?” His eyes flashed. “I met your older sister once, you know. A dainty little thing, but I never really desired a pet bird…did you know she married Jaime’s brother? I quite like that clever little man, but how he’s managed to fuck such a blushing young maiden..”

            “Shut up about my sister,” Arya said coldly. _Talk about fucking anyone else, but not my sister_. “…Fine, I’ll do it.” _Not like it will even matter once I get back, no one wants to bed the girl that killed their queen_.

            “What? No you won’t!” Jaime shot back, glaring more at her than even the smirking suitor.

            “Jaime,” she sighed, “we’re never going to make it to Asshai without his help. I _have_ to do this.”

            Jaime’s hand came at her, jerking Arya off the crate by the arm. He pulled her behind him and over to the beach’s far corner, to Daario’s amusement based on the look he gave when she looked back.

            “Let go of me—”

            The hand tightened, shaking her. “Why would you agree to this? Does helping the queen really matter that much to you?” Anger seeped from his tongue, but something else as well. Something more primal, more dangerous.

            “I…it’s hard to explain, Jaime. Remember when you said that I should trust you? Well now it’s _your_ turn to trust _me_.”

            He released her arm, staring at his hand. “Arya,” he whispered in a grated voice. “You’re the one who said I should _care.”_ His fingers reached down, brushing a wisp of hair from her cheek. Jaime seemed transfixed by the lock, rubbing it between his fingers and staring at anything, anything but her eyes.

            “I never told you to care about me.” Arya let out a shaky breath, gently prying his fingers away. “I’m sorry.” She looked up once more, but his eyes flickered away. Sighing, Arya turned around and walked back to the crate. Footsteps crunched along the sand behind.

            “I’ll do it. I’ll wed you once—no, if—we back it back with the eggs. Both of us.”

            Daario beamed, rising and dusting sand and crumbs from his robes. Arya thought she saw a flash of pity directed over her shoulder before his eyes returned to her own. “Excellent. Now if you both will follow me,” he said cheerfully, pulling up his hood with a flourish, “I hear it’s quite a journey.”


	15. Chapter Fifteen

“Com’on, girl. Let’s hear that pretty voice of yours!” The other sellswords hooted and hollered in agreement. Jaime just rolled his eyes and edged his horse on, trotting to the front of their small party.

After Daario had led their escape though the city sewer system, the sellsword had introduced his small, rather ragtag group of fifteen men meant to accompany them along the demon road—supposedly these men had served under Daario in the past when he had led the formidable Stormcrows. _Now their company is nothing more than a band of drunkards with some pretty steel_. They had been traveling along the road for about a week, and it hadn’t escaped Jaime’s notice how the men had been quite taken with Arya—and she with them for that matter. The sellswords and their leader seemed to respect a woman wearing steel far more than any Westerosi would—not that that stopped the men from behaving like men.

“I’m not a bird, I don’t sing on command,” Jaime heard Arya tease back.

“Just one song, girl! We don’t ride through the damned desert for nothing!” Noros the Nice (a self-inflicted name, Jaime had learnt) begged. Jaime let his horse’s gate slow to match the others, falling into step beside Daario with Arya and the rest behind them. He sneaked a look over his shoulder at the girl, who sighed before turning her gaze to the boundless blue sky.

Arya began humming a light, airy melody before beginning.

 “They say you only drown in sea

Not in the endless sky

But storms can brew no matter where

They care not how you fly

Some waves are made of salty swords

While others flash in view

The sky will crush you just the same

This sea of different blue”

The song ended in a whisper, and none dared to interrupt the quiet suspended over the company. It was as if every man looked up at the sky at once, and the nature of their mission, of their sacrifices to take this journey hung wide and open before them all just like the sky.  

After several heartbeats the silence grew weaker and the sounds of the desert and the horses and the men crawled timidly back. It was Daario who broke it, though. “You have a gift, my dear. What is that song called?”

Arya shrugged, self-consciously playing with her mare’s mane. “Drowning in Air, I heard it in Dorne once. Some maid was singing in the Water Gardens.”

Turning around on his horse, Jaime starred in surprised. “I thought you never returned to Westeros.” He didn’t mean for it to come out accusatory, but judging from the girl’s expression, she took it as so.

“Jaime you know barely anything about my life,” she spat, earning Jaime a knowing look from Daario. “I’ve been places, seen things, _done_ things that you could only imagine.”

Daario chuckled, steering his chestnut Palfrey to ride alongside Arya. “Tell me, wife, of these grand adventures. Perhaps I will share a few of my own.”

“ _Wife_ ,” Jaime muttered under his breath, but only his own horse snorted in response. _She threatened me with a knife when I called her that, and I wasn’t even being serious_. When he glanced back over Arya’s gaze flickered to his own before edging her mare closer to Daario. _And now she mocks me_ , he huffed, squeezing his horse’s sides till he again rode at the front.

On and on their party rode until dusk began to settle on the dry desert below, casting long shadows from the Painted Mountains to their left that stretched out across the flat plains. _The Demon Road has no demons_ , Jaime mused. _At least none that we have come across_. Only the occasional weary tree or shriveled tumbleweed had popped up along the road—Daario claimed that only fools and heroes traveled this cursed path, and Jaime had yet to decide which of the two they were.

“We should make camp,” Jaime called out, halting his horse. The others stopped as well but looked expectantly at their leader instead. Arya still remained by Daario’s side, but her illuminated face remained gazing straight ahead, the moonlight reflecting off her set jaw. _At least she still looks at me_.

“Ser Jaime is right, we can set up the tents over there,” he declared, jerking his chin at the thinly wooded area to their left. “There’s no use riding through the night, and I doubt we’ll come across a tavern full of willing wenches to warm our beds.”

“I take ‘em willing or not!” Noros the Nice shouted back.

“And that, my friend,” Daario began with a grin, “is why I have completely given up on understanding your name.” The men hooted back, laughing and slapping their thighs as they dismounted.

After handing off his horse to one of the men, Jaime walked over to where Arya sat, still atop her pale mare. “Here, I’ll help—” he started, reaching for her waist.

“Seriously Jaime?” she snapped, sliding a leg over the mare’s neck and hopping down. He watched as she stomped away, dust clouding the cooling air where her feet touched down.

One of the sellswords approached from his right, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You Westerosi knights are funny, trying to gallantly save your pretty maids. Too bad she ain’t one.” Jaime turned to look at the man, a short, heavily muscled Tyroshi with two long scars crossing at his nose.

“Oh shut up,” Jaime replied, exasperated. The man muttered something Low Valyrian, something rude no doubt.

By the time Jaime untacked his horse most of the tents had been raised, their beige canvas flapping lazily in the cool breeze. To his right the Summer Sea winked cheerfully, the rolling waves casting off an invitingly salty scent into the otherwise dry air. Squinting, Jaime made out two figures walking along the shore, their shadows thin against the milky sand. His feet carried him away from the dusty camp and across the cobbled road, sinking into the shore as he strode towards the figures. They stood side by side, looking out over the quiet sea. One of them turned, hearing as Jaime approached.

“Ser Jaime, do you care to join us?” Daario sang out, his good-natured tone jarring against the hushed sea. Arya looked up from his side, and an almost guilty expression flashed across before growing hard and cold.

Jaime ignored the sellsword, fuming as he came to a halt before the pair. “Arya, get back to the camp,” he commanded in a low voice.

“Seven hells, Jaime. We were just fucking talking,” she hissed, crossing her arms.

“Back. Now.”

The girl narrowed her eyes, nearly ash grey in the pale light. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she answered, fingering the sword secured at her hip. Daario’s smile remained plastered to his mouth, but his eyes were steadily growing wary.

Jaime smirked, matching her pose. “Perhaps the wolf-girl needs a lesson on swordplay. You want to act like a knight? Fine, slid out that dagger you hide beneath your bodice and we’ll fight like real men. With swords,” he drew his blade, holding it so the tip stood steady in the air before her chest. “This is what you always wanted, right? To play at swordfight like the little girl you are?” Anger seeped from Jaime’s heart and into his veins— _This is who I am, a warrior who likes to fight. I’m done playing the gallant knight for a girl who refuses to be saved._

“Lower your sword,” Daario ordered in a hushed, calming voice. “You swore to protect Lady Stark.” Jaime’s eyes darted over to the sellsword, taking in the hand on his hilt.

“And now she has you instead. Tell me, Daario. What is it like to fuck your way into the bed of both a dragon and a wolf?”

Daario swallowed but not make to draw his blade. “I have not touched her,” he said, eyes shifting nervously to Arya.

“Jaime what are you talking about?” she demanded, taking a step back from Jaime’s lofted blade.

He rolled his eyes, readjusting his grip. “Don’t tell me that—”

From behind a strange, steam-like hiss sang out across the silent landscape.

…

            _BOOM!_

And then a scream, a shrill, paralyzing scream that could only be birthed by the deadliest of fears.

“ _FIRE_!”


End file.
